


Dreams Unwind

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: If this is a dream, if Jon is under Sansa’s spell, he is only too happy to remain there for the rest of his days.Written for the JxSFF October Challenge





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansapotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansapotter/gifts).



> This was originally written for the JxSFF Tumblr October Challenge (I know, I know...I procrastinated BIG time about posting it here). It's dedicated to my pal Sansapotter who is my sister in Stevie Nicks fangirling.

(Corresponding edit **[here](http://blackholeofprocrastination.tumblr.com/post/152580544196/the-northern-girl-winterfells-daughter-we))**

 

_“The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leathery wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.”     - A Storm of Swords_

**Dreams Unwind**

“You look like shite.“

Arya is watching him from across the table, those sharp grey eyes too perceptive for their own good. As a girl, she could always read him so easily. It seems their years apart haven’t changed much.

"Didn’t sleep,” Jon offers as explanation.

Arya shrugs and begins to peel her boiled egg, mercifully dropping the subject.

Jon returns to his own meal and pretends he doesn’t notice the worried looks Arya and Bran spare his way while they discuss the new bow Bran’s had fashioned for himself.

Any hope Jon held of the meal carrying on peacefully disappears when the object of his torment enters the hall, Rickon’s hand clutched carefully in her own.

Jon tries to focus on the design in the grain of the table, but cannot resist sparing a quick glance as Sansa helps Rickon take a seat beside Arya before taking the only remaining place…beside Jon.

He can feel the bottom of Sansa’s skirts brush against his leg when she moves, and he nearly swallows his tongue when she bestows a gentle smile upon him. The end of her red plait dangles over her shoulder, close enough that all Jon needs do is reach out to touch it. He looks away and balls his hands in his lap.

Talk at the table quickly turns to the business of the day, Arya and Sansa bickering over plans for the new glass gardens while a bemused Bran tries to keep the peace and Rickon interjects with the occasional complaint of feeling much too ill to attend lessons with Maester Tarly. There was once a time Jon would have been comforted by the cacophony of familiar voices talking over one another, but now it is too sharp a reminder of when they were children, and he does not need another reason to feel guilty.

Jon tries to block out the chatter around him and turns his attention to hurriedly shoveling in mouthfuls of porridge without really tasting a bite. He takes his leave when he is finished with a muttered excuse about meeting with Sam.

He is too craven to look back and to see their reaction to his abrupt departure. Instead he charges out the doors of the Great Hall, taking the steps two at a time until he is safe in his own rooms.

Jon did not lie to Arya. Sleep has not come easily since the Red Woman brought him back.

Too often his dreams are troubled with things from before, half-formed memories that his sleeping-mind nearly grasps, only to be lost the moment he wakes.

Then there are the nightmares.

_Solemn voices joined together in the silence. “For the watch”. Then the daggers come. First one, sharp and sudden, then a dozen others. Jon’s knees hit the icy ground and he is falling. Falling into the cold and the darkness. Into nothing._

These dreams are inevitable. Things to be tolerated. To be woken from and shaken off as best he can.

But they are not the dreams that haunt him now.

The first night he wakes, tangled in the bedclothes and achingly hard from dreams of Sansa he feels sick from the shame of it.

He is sure it is a sign of something rotten within himself. Some lingering sign of his true nature, his bastardy, that cannot be washed away by the titles and lands his queenly aunt in the south thrusts upon him.

To blame Sansa for any part of his own deviancy is unjust. He knows this, and yet with each passing night, a mad part of Jon wonders if she is somehow complicit in stealing into his dreams.

“Har! There be a bit of the witch in that one,” Tormund had mused when Sansa had first appeared out of the snows with her silver army, her red hair billowing free like a flame in the wind.

At the time Jon had laughed. It seemed funny to hear his proper little sister described as such. But as Sansa continues to torment Jon’s sleeping hours, he cannot help but wonder if there is some small measure of truth to be found in Tormund’s words too.

Jon has heard the rumors.

In the South, they whisper of how Sansa poisoned Joffrey with a spell at his wedding feast and turned into some winged creature to fly far away. The Vale knights who joined her in taking back Winterfell follow her with wary eyes and gossip like fishwives about how the Bolton bastard was found in his cell, his bones chewed clean. Even in the Winter Town there is all manner of absurd mutterings amongst the smallfolk concerning Lady Sansa using charms to bring spring up from the South with her.

Similar talk has followed the Starks since Robb first rode from the battlefield with Grey Wind at his side, the wolf's muzzle bloodied. Jon has always scoffed when such stories reached him, but he cannot deny there is some measure of truth to them.

Jon does not understand Bran’s ‘sight’, but he’s seen it at work enough to know better than to doubt it. Little Rickon slips in out of Shaggydog’s head as easy as breathing. Arya returned from Braavos with the ability to don the faces of others. And Jon…well Jon knows too well what it is to be in magic’s thrall. He’s seen death and been brought back from the edge. He’s felt the heat of dragon’s breath on his cheek. He’s plunged a blade fashioned from flame into the Night King’s heart.

That night the dreams that come are more vivid than ever.

_Sansa is barefoot in the godswood, winter roses in her hair. She squeals with laughter as Jon gives chase, catching her round the middle and swinging her into his arms._

_Sansa steps into the hotsprings. Her hair a beautiful curtain of red and gold, the ends darkening as they dip into the surface of the water. She looks over her shoulder and beckons Jon closer._

_Sansa presses Jon’s shoulders roughly into the rushes as she writhes above him. Her skirts are rucked around her waist, her face lovely and slack with pleasure._

Jon wakes early. He splashes his face with cold water and dons his boots and cloak before heading outside of the keep, far from his chambers and dreams that plague him there.

The last of the long winter still clings to the air, cold and sharp. Jon takes in great lungfuls of it. Let’s it seep into his bones and clear his head.

He seeks out the one place he might find any peace, but as he approaches the center of the godswood, he sees there is no peace to be had.

Knelt at the foot of the heartree is Sansa.

Jon is warring with himself on whether it is better to announce himself or to flee back to the keep like a coward when Sansa speaks.

“Sweetrobin had a weirwood planted for me at the Gates,” Sansa says. She reaches to lay a reverent hand on weirwood’s trunk. “He knew how much I missed home.”

_Home. Winterfell._

For so long it seemed all Jon wanted was to see it’s walls again. Of course, now that he was finally home he finds he wants so much more.

_Greedy bastard._

“Why are you standing so far away?” Sansa teases, finally looking over her shoulder at him. “Do I frighten you, cousin?”

_Gods yes_ , Jon thinks, but he manfully steps forward. He takes a seat beside her, mindful to leave a courteous amount of space between them. Sansa closes the space, scooting until the sides of their thighs are touching and her arm can nestle into the crook of his arm.

“Have you come to pray?”

Jon does not trust himself to speak and so he answers with a stiff nod. Sansa tilts her head to look at him and her face folds into a frown.

“Always so serious,” she chides.

Jon is trying to formulate some clever response to ease the discomfort between them and make her laugh when Sansa leans up to brush her lips against his.

Sansa is sweet in his dreams. Soft and yielding under his hands and mouth.

She is even sweeter now, as she presses into his side, her breath warm and real on his skin.

“Wh-why did you do that?” he stammers when she pulls away.

Sansa laughs, a blush coming to her cheek.

“I thought it would cheer you,” she says, her arm still drawn through his own. “And if we were to wait for you, Jon, it would never happen at all!” She shoots him a chastising look, some of her prissiness of old slipping into her voice.

Jon blinks at her.

Surely this is the cruelest dream of all.

But then Sansa is kissing him, one hand cupped gently against his bearded cheek, her mouth opening against the pull of his own. Jon’s mind stops worrying over whether this is truly happening and instead only focuses on how best to get Sansa to make that pleading little sigh again.

If this is a dream, if Jon is under Sansa’s spell, he is only too happy to remain there for the rest of his days.


End file.
